


Potent

by queenhomeslice



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Geraskier, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Riding, Shameless Smut, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, minor mentions of blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:34:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22566367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenhomeslice/pseuds/queenhomeslice
Summary: Geralt can smell Jaskier's desire for him; and one night at an inn, he finally confronts his friend.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 62
Kudos: 1092





	Potent

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all please be gentle, this is my first Witcher fic, and Idk what I'm doing, honestly. Please let me know what details I've gotten wrong.  
> _______  
> Disclaimer: All Witcher fiction belongs to Andrzej Sapkowski; The Witcher TV series belongs to Netflix; The Witcher video game rights belong to CD Projekt/CD Projekt RED. I do not own the rights to any copyrighted material; I am not affiliated with any production companies of The Witcher games, tv shows, books, or other media; and I am not making money from this.

Geralt comes back from his contract wet and muddy and bloody—they're in some piss-poor town in the middle of nowhere, as is the norm. He leads a very tired Roach by the reins back to the large inn where he’d left Jaskier in charge of securing a room—and more coin, if he could manage. He gets to the inn and finds the stable master, telling him that the nest of drowners—and the wolves, and the _were_ wolves—were all taken care of. The man almost falls at his feet and shoves a large purse at him, which Geralt takes with a satisfied hum, taking out a few coins and telling him that Roach is probably in need of a bath and some new shoes. Roach whinnies affectionately and bumps her head against him. The witcher whispers into her ear, pets her, and then takes his bags from her saddle, making his way into the inn proper. 

Unlike the damp, dreary night, the inside of the inn is lively and warm and overflowing with ale and stew. Jaskier’s got the whole lot of peasants crying into their bowls— _I am weak, my love, and I am wanting—_ and his upside down hat in front of his stool is full of coin, silver and copper and gold, and—of course, he’s never without a few unmentionables as souvenirs, bless his heart. He winks at the ladies and croons his heart out as Geralt sidles up to the bar, nodding silently at the barkeep. 

“Aye, Sir Witcher. Ye’ve taken care of our little problem?” 

Geralt hums. “All finished. Your drowners, your wolves. Which, some were werewolves, if you didn’t know. That wasn’t mentioned.” 

The barkeep’s eyes go wide. “On my faith, _we didn’t_ know. We thank ye—our babes will sleep soundly tonight, and we’ll not fear to hunt in the forests.” The man sets a mug of ale in front of him. “On the house, for your service. And your bard, really knows how to draw a crowd.” 

“Not _my_ bard,” Geralt mutters, though his eyes flicker over to Jaskier all the same. “Did he get a room like I asked?” 

The barkeep nods and hands Geralt a spare key. “Up the stairs, last door on the left. I’ll send up some stew.” 

Geralt chugs his drink and nods, swallowing. 

He’s half-asleep in the lukewarm water when Jaskier finally comes up with heavy cap and light heart. 

“Ah, Geralt! What a fine night we’ve had!” He shakes his cap, jingling the coins. “I had them _salivating_ over my lute, my friend. Absolutely _insatiable_. And look at you—all in one piece, yes, with a full purse as well? We could live like kings up here for a week!” 

“Hmmm.” 

“All right, well, with _your_ appetite, maybe just a few days.” 

Geralt snorts and cracks an eyelid, just in time to see Jaskier shedding his clothes, changing into much lighter linen breeches and an unlaced shirt. “Not gonna bathe? Clean the stench of the masses from your lute?” 

“I bathed as soon as you left, my friend. I’ve only been singing for a couple of hours. What, does my manly musk offend your sensitive witcher senses?” Jaskier teases. 

Geralt smirks. So...the bard wants to play _this_ game, hm? He’ll bite. “No, you’re clean enough. But I can smell something else.” 

Jaskier turns, sashaying over to the tub and dumping scented oil into the water. Geralt hums and sinks lower, white hair fanning out and floating on the surface. “Smell _this_ ,” he retorts. “You smell like rotten flesh.” 

“I was fighting rotten flesh,” Geralt counters gently, but makes no other argument. He’s been soaking a long time, trying to rid himself of the grime. Quick dips in rivers and ponds don’t compare to a proper soaking, with soap and oils and cleansing salts. 

“Well anyway,” continues the bard. “What do you smell on me, pray tell?” 

“Your desire.” Geralt closes his eyes again and runs his hands over his thighs, scraping off dirt and dead skin. He hears Jaskier’s heartbeat skyrocket, can smell the adrenaline seeping out through his pores. 

The bard stutters and chokes out a response. “Well _, in my defense,_ Geralt, there were several lovely ladies downstairs. Perhaps you missed my souvenirs?” He pulls a pair of lacey nothings from the pile of clothes on the floor and dangles them from his finger. 

Geralt opens his eyes again and stares at the bard. “Your desire...when we’re alone, on the road. When I wake, I can smell your release on you. On the ground near camp where you’ve gotten yourself off.” 

The bard’s face goes beet red and Geralt thinks the younger man might have a heart attack. 

“Well, I—you keep me away from civilization for _days,_ you beast! A man has needs! Don’t think I don’t know when _you’re_ out, visiting brothels.” 

Geralt shrugs. “True.” 

“So that’s what’s so offensive? Choking the chicken? Fine, I’ll do it away from camp, if it bothers you so much.” 

“Never said that...” Geralt trails as he sinks lower into the water. “Not offended. Just curious.” 

“About what? Witchers don’t masturbate? Is it against the code, or something? Sex only?” 

“No.” 

“Geralt, trying to have a conversation with you is like speaking to a wall. Your horse is more communicative than you are.” 

“Sorry.” A pause. “Desire...for me? When we’re at camp, and you’re singing, I...smell it. When you look at me.” 

Jaskier stands quickly. “I should...I should go. I’ll go catch up to one of my adoring lady friends, surely she’ll let me spend a night or three...” 

“Why?” Geralt opens his eyes and stands up from the water, sloshing it. He grabs the towel from the floor and dries his face, his hair, slings the cloth around his shoulders when he’s through—but he’s fully nude, in front of a very blushing Jaskier, whose heart rate still hasn’t returned to normal. The witcher shrugs. “I’m right here. Just...ask.” 

“What,” says Jaskier through a malfunctioning brain, “are you saying?” 

“If you have desires,” says Geralt simply, “just say so.” 

“Geralt, are you...” 

“I can smell it right now,” the witcher purrs, narrowing his bright yellow eyes at the bard. Jaskier looks so small in plain sleeping clothes, not done up in feathery caps and puffy jackets and billowing breeches. Geralt idly wonders if his hair as soft as it looks—if his lips are equally as soft. How would his large, scarred, calloused hands look caressing a bony hip, thumbing through dark chest hair, wrapped around the other’s cock? He licks his lips. Despite what the bard might think, Geralt doesn’t _hate_ him. At least...not always. But it’s annoying when the bard’s adrenaline and heartbeat and musk betray his wants, and Jaskier keeps his lips silent. 

Geralt walks towards his bard—Jaskier _is_ his, despite his quip at the bar earlier—and Jaskier stands there like a man paralyzed. He reaches out to cup his young face—young, so young, so much more deserving than anything Geralt could ever give him—and Jaskier leans into it, instinctively, eyelids fluttering closed. Geralt leans low to his cheek, allowing his lips to grace the other man’s skin. “If you want me, all you need do is ask.” 

“Oh, _gods_ , _goddesses_...fuck, _Geralt_...” Jaskier moans brokenly, being held up by Geralt’s strength alone. He’s seated in the White Wolf’s lap, and he’s lost count of how many times he’s come. The witcher’s strong, rough hands feel better on his skin than Jaskier could have ever imagined. Geralt kisses him roughly, like a man starved, swallowing all of the moans that Jaskier gives him. He can’t help but whine like a bitch in heat as he takes Geralt’s cock—he's _so big_ , and Jaskier can swear he feels him in his throat. He feels full, too full, almost past the point of pleasure. Geralt bites into his shoulder, hard, and holds him by the hips as he comes for the _third time_ up into his abused channel. 

He grunts in pleasure. “Doing _so_ good, Jaskier. Take me _so_ well.” 

Jaskier keens and scrambles forward, desperate to kiss the source of that gravelly voice that threatens to be his undoing. The bard whines into Geralt’s mouth for the umpteeth time—it's all-consuming, passionate, scraping teeth and biting lips and everything he thought that kissing the witcher would be like. 

“How...are you... _fuck_...still going...?” 

Geralt just hums gently and hugs the smaller man to his chest, reveling in the feeling of his soft chest hair against his own. Jaskier digs his nails into Geralt’s back but the witcher doesn’t mind—it only spurs him on. He senses when Jaskier starts to lose energy and takes the lead, flipping them so that the bard is on his back, pretty brown hair splayed out on the downy pillow and crisp white sheets that they’re absolutely ruining. He takes one slender leg and hikes it up—Jaskier screams as Geralt hits at a different angle, arches his back impossibly high. 

“The _smell_ of you, Jas...” Geralt mumbles as he slides a hand under the bard’s back. “The smell of your desire for me...nothing like it...” 

“Oh, _oh_ , Geralt, keep talking, _oh_...” 

“You feel like the finest silk around me, s’good...so good...” 

Jaskier shudders with another dry orgasm, cock twitching incessantly, trapped between their two bodies. Geralt leans down to grace his other pale, slender shoulder with a bruise to match other one, and Jaskier thinks that he might just walk around shirtless if Geralt is going to make a habit of marking him. 

“Come on, Geralt, come _on_ ,” the bard sings. “I am weak, I am _wanting_ , it’s _you_ , Geralt, the songs are all about _you_...” 

Geralt hums gently and kisses his chest. “I know.” And he closes his eyes and comes for a fourth time into Jaskier’s pliant body. 

And the next time, when they make camp, when Jaskier is tuning his lute and singing about love—he looks at Geralt and the witcher’s nostrils flare, and soon enough—he's smelling the both of them, all over their bed rolls, but Geralt finds that he doesn’t mind in the slightest. 

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave nice comments if you liked it.;-;


End file.
